


Reflect

by GravityGarbage



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Cause that happens a lot in this fic, Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, Fantasy!Stan has the dirtiest mouth on earth, Fingering, Ghost Sex, Holy shit y'all this really is just 3k words of pure filth, I don't even know how to tag this, Incest, Kind of but not really:, M/M, Masturbation, More teen!Stans, Stancest - Freeform, The slut-shaming/name calling is consensual though, Um what's it called when someone gets off on being slut-shamed?, Voice kink tbh?, Wanna be clear about that, kind of:, no nutritional value whatsoever, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 05:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravityGarbage/pseuds/GravityGarbage
Summary: Ford is bored and frustrated, alone in his dorm at Backupsmore. He can't seem to concentrate on anything other than how much he misses his twin brother Stanley. Oh and also he's 18 and horny, let's not forget that important detail.Add a full-length mirror and poor impulse control and bring to a roiling boil. You can probably guess what happens next.





	Reflect

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I've decided to archive my old grunkle sin works here on the off chance Tumblr decides to eat them during the Great Purge. (: Have fun and let me know if you think I need to add additional tags.

To say Ford was frustrated would be a massive understatement.

He’d been at Backupsmore for less than three months and he’d spent every waking moment of that time in a foul mood. 

Everything irritated him, the dorms, the other students, the teachers, even his entirely harmless hippie roommate Fiddleford McGucket. Stanford had never had much of a temper to speak of, but after ninety days spent cooped up alone in this backwater college town with no familiar faces to break up the monotony, most of his so-called peers knew to stay the hell away from Stanford Pines unless they wanted their heads bitten off.

Fiddleford didn’t mind Ford’s random outbursts of temper, preferring to laugh them off or shrug and leave the dorm for the nearest college party rather than subject himself to his roommates unpredictable mood swings. Deep down Ford knew he was being unfair; Fiddleford was sweet and funny and had never done anything to deserve his ire but it was like he just couldn’t help it. Stanford was mad at the world, and he needed someone to take it out on. Though he did try to make sure that person _wasn’t_ McGucket, when he could.

That night had been one of the nights his roommate decided to take a walk across campus to the nearest social gathering rather than deal with him. He’d waved good-bye and told Ford not to wait up and vanished out their door into the darkness beyond. It was for the best. No matter what he did Ford just couldn’t concentrate on the paper he was supposed to be writing for his advanced physics class and he was in an even worse mood than usual because of it.

He kept fidgeting, trying (and failing) to get settled in for a long night of studying, first at his desk then on his bed, but nothing was working. It was as if his skin had unexpectedly shrunk two sizes in the wash and didn’t fit him quite right anymore, too-tight and itchy and hot, seething with barely restrained energy just beneath the surface. It made him want to scratch his own skin off just to make it stop, that or scream at the top of his lungs just to break the silence. 

He was also unexpectedly horny, which was not helping matters in the least. Being eighteen and at the mercy of a potent cocktail of noxious hormones at all hours of the day was the worst kind of torture Stanford could imagine, and he should know.

Finally, after another ten minutes of absently flipping through pages without taking in a single word of information he snarled in pure frustration and hurled the book across the room, uncaring of the monumental cost of textbooks in that moment. The hollow smacking sound of the book hitting the wall brought him no satisfaction; if anything, it only grated on his overwrought nerves all the more.

He briefly considered jacking off to try and relieve some of the tension but he discarded the idea almost immediately. He hadn’t been able to achieve anything more than the shallowest of orgasms in months, not since Stan-

His train of thought stuttered and then derailed completely and he covered his face with a groan. He shouldn’t think about Stan at a time like this. Thinking about his twin would do nothing to help him be less irrationally angry or senselessly turned on and in fact, had the exact opposite affect.

He hadn’t seen his brother since the end of their Senior year, hadn’t heard from him either by phone or by mail. Which was _fine_ , he reminded himself for the thousandth time. He didn’t _want_ to talk to Stanley. He was still incredibly mad at him for being the reason he ended up at Backupsmore after all, and so he shouldn’t miss him, not at bit.

Only he did, because of course he did. He missed his brother so badly it ached, deep down inside of him in a way he couldn’t ignore or logically explain away. It was like a hole had been carved inside his chest and something vital had been yanked out and stomped on, and nothing he did or tried to do could ever fill up the space it left behind.

With a muffled curse he fought himself free of his blankets, rolling to his feet with the intention of taking a cold shower to try and cool down the heat that surged and roiled under his skin. He yanked his button-up over his head without even trying to take it off properly and tossed it carelessly to the floor.

He unbuttoned his jeans and reached to pull off his undershirt next when he caught his reflection in the full-length mirror that hung precariously on the inside of his open closet door. He paused with his hands curled around the hem of his t-shirt and considered what he saw carefully.

White t-shirt, ratty jeans he’d been meaning to replace for years now, a lopsided scowl twisting his features. Were it not for his glasses he would look astonishingly like…but then that made sense didn’t it? They were twins after all, and identical at that, save for the slight cleft in Ford’s chin that Stan lacked. Shakily, he ran a hand through his tousled curls, raking them back in a semblance of order just like Stan always used-used to-

He breath shuddered out of him and he pulled off his glasses and tossed them on his desk before he could second-guess himself, heartbeat thundering loud in his ears. His eyesight wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t still make out his reflection, and the blurriness actually helped to add to the illusion that it was Stan looking back at him from the mirror, obscuring his own face enough that he couldn’t see the minute differences that could be used to tell them apart.

He licked his suddenly dry lips without thinking, catching the flicker of movement in the mirror. He repeated the action deliberately this time, dragging his tongue slowly over the slight swell of his bottom lip the way Stanley would whenever he caught Ford looking his way, alone in their room where their parents wouldn’t see. 

The likeness was so similar, so much like something his twin would do that Stanford could have sworn the teen in the mirror cocked his head and winked at him, exaggeratedly flirtatious and grinning like a wolf.

That decided it. Feeling more than a little ridiculous and mentally wondering how his life had spiraled so far out of his control that it had come to this, he wrestled the mirror free of the closet door and dragged it over to the foot of his bed. Propping it against the wall, he had to adjust it several times to get the angle just right, but once it was positioned perfectly he didn’t waste time, retrieving the mostly full bottle of lube from under his bed before climbing back up onto it, heart thudding like a jackhammer against his ribcage.

He couldn’t believe what he was doing, what he was about to do. It was so-so lewd, so dirty, so utterly unlike him that he was more than a little shocked at himself for coming up with the idea in the first place. Not enough to make him stop, but enough that he knew he’d have to do some seriously soul-searching once this was all said and done.

But not now.

He popped open the cap on the lube, the snap of it overly loud in the quiet of the room and Ford shivered at the memories the sound recalled, the vast majority of them involving his brother in some form or fashion. 

And for a moment, just a breath of time, Ford could have sworn Stan was there with him, shifting around on the bed behind him, could have sworn he even felt his twin reach out to touch him, brushing his fingers lightly through the short hairs on Ford’s nape, making him jerk and tremble at the sharp shock of want it sent through him.

Of course, that was all pure imagination, just as it should be. That’s why they called it ‘fantasizing’ after all. And as long as he kept in mind that the presence of his brother on the bed with him was nothing but an elaborate fabrication, he could let himself imagine, couldn’t he, just this once? After all, what was the harm?

Ford firmly ignored the laughter, harsh and familiar, that echoed in his mind more than his ears at that thought. Stan was _not_ there, not really. But he could pretend. He could pretend as much as he liked, provided he didn’t lose his nerve.

He settled himself precisely on the bed, facing the mirror, bracing his knees apart for balance. He studiously avoided looking into the mirror as he unzipped his jeans and tugged his half-hard cock free of his boxers, cheeks burning at the thought of how he must look. If he looked now he would lose his courage, he knew it. He made sure his hand was liberally coated with lube and wrapped loosely around himself before he took a deep breath and made himself meet his reflection’s gaze head-on.

Heat immediately surged into his cheeks at the picture he made, spread legs braced, face flushed, with his cock in his hand. He wavered, unsure it he could keep going. It was so intimate, so strange a thing to watch himself as he did this. But then, this wasn’t about watching _himself_ , not really. It was about imagining what would happen if Stan were there to see him like that. He tried to imagine what his brother would say about it, if he really were there.

 _What’s all this Sixer?_ The memory of Stan’s voice ghosted through his mind, light with amusement and at the same time rich with growing hunger, the familiar gravel roughness of it alone enough to make Ford whimper. _You got a present for me? Gonna put on a show for me now?_

“W-would-” He swallowed hard and tried again. “Would you like it if I did?”

The little voice in his head, the part of him that would always know his twin better than he knew himself hummed. _Mmm, you know I always do._

Goosebumps erupted over his torso, as if some unseen hand had just skimmed softly over the curve of his hip. _What’s the occasion?_

“No occasion, I just…” He swallowed again, at war with his emotions, wondering how much to admit to himself but in the end he went with the simple truth. “I just miss you.”

 _Miss you too bro_ , the memory of Stan whispered, sounding as forlorn as Ford felt. Which would make sense, considering the voice was a construct of Ford’s imagination.

The tone of the voice changed, making the next words sound lascivious and wicked, dripping with innuendo, and he could see the smirk on his brother’s face in his mind’s eye as easily as if it really was Stanley who watched him from across the room in the mirror.

_Although, if this is what I get when you really miss me, maybe I should stay away more often._

Ford rolled his eyes and huffed, fighting the smile that wanted to tip his lips up at the corners. It figured imaginary-Stan would like to tease his brother just as much as real-Stan did. “Stop it. This isn’t for you. I just need to work off some steam, is all.”

 _That so?_ The hand around his cock, forgotten until right then, abruptly tightened, making Ford arch his back and gasp in surprise. He wasn’t sure he’d meant to do that. _Well then, don’t wait around on my account. Let’s see you work off that steam._

Stanford bit his lip, but chose not to reply as he obeyed, starting off pumping himself slow and steady, working himself to full hardness after just a few strokes, the fire in his blood responding eagerly to this new form of stress relief. He groaned and tipped his head back, beginning to rock his hips upwards in time with his pulls, unconsciously picked up the pace as he thrust up into the circle of his hand.

 _Yeah, yeah, just like that,_ Stan’s voice encouraged, the words low and labored, like his own breathing had sped up in response to Ford’s heightened arousal. 

Phantom teeth ghosted over the curve of his ear, nipping it and making Ford jerk his hips up, tearing another gasp from his throat that quickly turned into a needy whine. _God you look so good like this. So hot, on your knees like this, putting on a show, just for me, just like the good little slut we both know you really are._

Ford groaned, embarrassed, just as he always was, even as heat shot through him from head to toe when Stanley called him things like that. He knew he should be offended, should huff and scoff and turn away in high dudgeon, knew he should feel insulted, but he didn’t. He never did. “S-Stan…”

 _Why aren’t you watching yourself?_ The voice wanted to know, trailing ghostly bites across Ford’s neck and shoulders, making the skin prickle and the fine hair on his arms stand up in the wake of them. _You put the mirror there; you wanted to watch yourself. Wanted to look at your face and see mine instead, so why aren’t you watching?_

That had been the plan, but still Ford shook his head, making sweat-soaked curls tumble over his forehead and into his eyes, hips never stopping or slowing down as he answered the facsimile of his brother aloud. “Can’t. Can’t…i-if I watch I won’t-I won’t-”

 _You’re afraid you won’t last?_ Stan’s voice was amused again, ever as he licked around the curve of his twin’s neck and shoulder. 

_Afraid to watch yourself getting off? Afraid the sight will be too erotic? That you’ll come too quickly? You wanna draw this out as long as you can, pretend I’m really here with you as long as you can, is that it?_

It was all Ford could do to nod frantically, too far gone for words.

 _You’ve always had such beautiful hands Ford_ , Stan’s voice pointed out. _So why are you letting just one of them do all the work?_

Pressure wrapped around Ford’s free wrist, slowly drawing the hand up from where it had been bracing his weight behind him on the bed, and moving it until it slipped under Ford’s shirt and up his chest to his neglected nipples.

_I love watching you get yourself off with these hands. Jesus, but you have gorgeous hands, such long fingers. Why don’t you find something else to do with them, hm?_

It took Ford two tries to manage the breath to speak. “How? W-What-?” 

He twitched and keened as he toyed with his nipples, rolling them between his fingers until they were peaked and oversensitive to even the slightest drag of his shirt against them. “What…did you have in mind?”

 _I wanna see those lovely, long fingers of yours put to better use._ The voice growled, so low and deep it made Ford whine to hear it. _I wanna watch you fuck yourself on them, want you to stretch yourself as wide as you can and pretend it’s me doing it, that it’s my cock you’re riding, that I’m the one that’s filling you up so completely._

A tongue dragged across the shell of his ear, so real to his hyperactive senses that he could have sworn he actually felt the hot, wet pressure of it. _I wanna hear you **scream**._

A noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan punched itself out of Ford’s chest, but he hardly noticed as he scrabbled to find the bottle in the ruin of his bedsheets, fumbling it in his eagerness and smearing his blankets as much as his hands with lube, not that he was in any fit state to care right then. Once his fingers were thickly covered in the stuff, he slipped his hand down the back of his jeans and inside his boxers, spreading his legs open even wider to accommodate the new position.

He wrapped his other hand back around his slicked erection and sucked in a deep breath as he slowly pushed one lubed finger past the tight ring of muscle at his entrance. He chin dropped to rest on his chest as he shook with barely contained need, forcing himself to finish adjusting to the first finger before he added another, and then another. Soon enough he was four fingers deep in his hole and riding them hard, twisting his wrist and crying out every time he brushed his prostate, free hand jerking himself desperately, teetering on the hair-thin edge between too-much and not-enough, overstimulated and nearly sobbing under the torrent of pleasure battering him from all sides.

He wouldn’t last long, not like this, not with his hand on his cock and his hole stuffed so full he could barely take it, and especially not with the memory of Stan’s voice whispering feverishly in his ear. _Yes, yes, c'mon you’re almost there, can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel how tight and hot and **wet** you are for me? All of it just for me, only for me to watch and touch and **fuck** , Ford, can’t you feel me, stretching you, filling you up? Can’t you feel me inside you?_

“Yes!” Ford cried out, not caring how thin the walls were or who might hear him. Too far gone to care about keeping himself quiet. “Yes I can, oh God, Lee, _Lee_! I need more, please-oh please, _more_ , give me more!”

 _Anything for you. Anything for you, my pretty little slut._ A fifth finger squeezed in beside the others, filling him to the brim, and he twisted his wrist just so, just right to press _hard_ against his prostate.

Ford’s mouth fell open on a silent scream, the hand around his cock going still as he finally tipped over the edge, into a free-fall of pure pleasure that slammed into him with all the speed and strength of a freight train. 

His head snapped up of its own volition, like someone had grabbed him by the hair and pulled, meeting his reflection’s eyes squarely, watching himself as he came harder than he had in months and months of trying. He came so hard his vision went white and he might have blacked out for a second, collapsing into a spent heap on his bed, sweaty and exhausted and finally, _finally_ satisfied.

Meanwhile, somewhere along the east coast, Stanley Pines jerked awake tangled in the cheap comforter of some rat-hole motel in Virginia state, pouring sweat and with a familiar stickiness on the inside of his boxers. Grimacing, he gingerly sat up and lifted the blankets away to investigate. “Aw, man. No way am I gettin that deposit back _now_.”


End file.
